


Nighthawks

by sinkthesix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Minor Violence, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Swearing, but not like you'd expect, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 03:43:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19220866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinkthesix/pseuds/sinkthesix
Summary: When high-school senior Castiel Novak stumbles out of his house after an explosive fight sporting a few new bruises and bloodstains dripped on his Metallica T-shirt, his brothers direct him to Harvelle's Beanhouse in town to wait for a few hours while they work damage control. The inhabitants are a peculiar bunch, mostly kindhearted and calm, and feature the familiar face of Dean Winchester—football star, pretty boy, and complete stranger (plus his blunt but charming younger brother). Despite his usually cautious nature, Castiel lets himself unwind under the dim diner lights and finds something new in Dean's dangerously green eyes, something he does not want to let go of.





	Nighthawks

**Author's Note:**

> the background is this: around january 2017, i made a bet with my darling friend [@rainbow-of-the-lord](https://rainbow-of-the-lord.tumblr.com/) in our biology lab. if he won, i'd write him a short fic; if i won, he'd write me one. clearly, i lost.
> 
> so, two and a half years later, i pay up in the form of this thing.
> 
>  **content warnings include:** brief mentions of abuse, aftermath of abuse, brief mentions of alcohol abuse/alcoholism, some mentions of violence, swearing, a very short mention of a character refusing to eat (and implying that they have done the same in past instances), and a very _very_ brief implication of non-con (just kissing).
> 
> to my friend (and everyone else, of course), please enjoy.

Castiel stumbles out of his house and barely gets five feet before his legs give out and his knees just miss the cold black pavement, instead landing in the grass and procuring little green smears on the fabric. There’s a thin cut on his cheek and a bruise on his jaw that aches when he shifts it around. He pokes it with a cautious finger and immediately winces. It’s already turning purple and yellow, he’s sure, some ugly mottled thing that’ll be stuck on him for weeks.

What he _does_ know is that it isn’t the only bruise on him, and there’s a dull pain in his abdomen that won’t go away any time soon.

He tries to collect his thoughts (they were scattered across the ground when his knees hit) but all Castiel remembers of the last twenty minutes is empty bottles, empty threats, empty eyes. But then he _had_ to overstep his bounds, and he really should have known better. Lucifer has always been a delicate topic with Father, even with his brothers. Once Michael got angry enough to backhand him, but of course, he was never blamed. The red mark lasted for almost four days.

The moment Castiel opened his mouth, those bottles came hurling at him; those threats became real and sharp enough to cut him in two; those eyes filled with liquid fire, drunken wisdom, blind anger. Castiel ducked and dodged what he could, and when he found himself backed against the front door he’d swung it open and slammed it shut behind him.

And that’s where he is now. His head still hurts, and his vision is still swimming, so he gets to his feet with a Herculean effort and attempts to start walking. Where to? Anywhere else but here.

Before he takes the first step, the door opens quietly and shuts just as quick, and two people are on him, surrounding him. The first— _Gabriel,_ he realizes a second too slow—takes his face in his hands, wipes at the budding blood with his thumb and smears it across his face. He murmurs something low, but Castiel misses it and is almost glad he does. Everything sounds sort of underwater.

The other person— _Balthazar,_ of _course_ it was these two—keeps one watchful eye on their front door as he tells Castiel to leave.

“Listen,” Balthazar says, pressing Castiel’s phone into his chest and refusing to let go until he’s wrapped his own shaky, clammy fingers around it. “We’ll let you know when you can come back, but right now you have to go.” He shoots a glance at Gabriel, whose hands have fallen to Castiel’s shoulders. “We’re on damage control right now.”

Castiel looks between the two of them, then down to his feet, barely visible through the blinding darkness. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, talking more to himself than his brothers. “I only meant to— I shouldn’t have—” he cuts himself off, averts his powder-blue eyes to their feet.

Gabriel squeezes his shoulders, and he looks up. “Eh, maybe not some parts,” he says. “But everything you said was right. The old man just doesn’t want to hear it. Anyway, we’ll be fine, but _you_ need to go. Like, now.”

Balthazar steps into his line of vision once more, and his eyes barely stay on Castiel for more than a second before darting back to the door. It’s still closed, but there’s muffled yelling from inside, only audible due to the deafening silence of the night. “Listen, Castiel,” he starts, voice low, “I’ll text you an address. It’s a small diner in town. I know the owners and they’ll watch over you until this whole storm blows over. Gabriel is right. You have to _go._ ”

Balthazar brushes the tips of his fingers across a new bruise and something in his face falters for a moment, the façade of protection worn away by overwhelming concern and a hint of anger. Through the last wisps of his mental fog, Castiel begins to understand how he is not safe here, not right now, and so he gives in. His brothers always know best.

“Alright,” he relents. “I’m going.”

Gabriel and Balthazar give him tight smiles (they don’t blame him, this isn’t the first time this has happened, he hasn’t been the only one sent off in the night to wait for a text) before stepping back onto the porch. Castiel turns and walks out of the driveway, starts down the sidewalk aimlessly. He doesn’t need to look back, he knows they won’t go inside until he’s out of sight. Looking back only hurts.

The night is thick, hot, muggy, but the open air finally clears his mind. Gnats swarm the street lights and his body, buzzing around his face. He walks faster.

Castiel comes to a stop when his phone vibrates in his hand. He’s still clutching it to his chest and pulls it away slowly. There’s a message from Balthazar, giving him directions to one Harvelle’s Beanhouse. A quick pang of anxiety flits through his chest—he knows he’s not exactly a pretty sight: sweaty and bruised, grass stains still on his jeans, blood smeared across his face and probably dripped down across his Master of Puppets T-shirt.

(He was first introduced to Metallica by Lucifer years ago. They used to sit on his bed and blast each gritty song through the speakers of Lucifer’s cheap laptop, bobbing their heads and grinning at each other and ignoring anyone who rapped on the door and demanded they stop).

Despite his worries, he keeps walking, following Balthazar’s directions. His brother does not trust easily, so if he considers this place a safe haven, then it’s probably set up like an embassy or a police station. By the name, it appears to be a coffee shop. Past refuges have not been as promising: previously offered by Gabriel, they included a poorly-staffed pizza restaurant near closing time, the home of an elderly couple down the street, a dim convenience store, and an abandoned, unlocked car in the C.W. High School parking lot.

The car was the most recent and by far the worst option: cold, pitch-black, with a foul smell, chosen in a panic. Castiel’s phone had died around 2 AM, so he stayed awake the entire night and wandered home when the first slivers of light edged over the horizon and past the treeline. He’d run into Balthazar on the way, who had been sprinting in his direction; and after the initial relief came worry in the form of anger, which was quickly redirected onto Gabriel. Since then, Castiel and Balthazar had been in charge of picking hideaways.

About twenty minutes after he leaves the property line, Castiel stands in front of Harvelle’s Beanhouse. It is, as he thought, a coffee shop, or perhaps some sort of diner—set on the street corner with wide windows, each one concealing the interior with white shutter blinds; giving off yellow and blue glows, indicating that anyone is welcome to join, that their loneliness will be understood.

He steps inside the door and stops again, taking it all in. The shop looks like Edward Hopper designed it, with a round bar that fills most of the room and a few booths on the fringes, clothed in black-and-white checkerboard.

There are exactly five other people in the diner, and two of them are working the counter. One is a blonde girl with a high ponytail and tired expression, and the other a brown-haired guy with a god-awful mullet and an open laptop off to the side. A girl his age with bright red hair, glasses, and flannel rolled to her elbows is judging him from a booth, fingers paused on her keyboard.

The last occupants are two boys who look like brothers sitting at the counter. The older one wears a green-and-white varsity jacket and leans with his back against the bar, resting his Nike-clad heels on the stool and bouncing his knee. The younger is decked in plaid and seems to be writing something. Homework, maybe.

After about ten seconds of absorbing all of this, he realizes that a small bell above the door had sharply signaled his arrival, and all five inhabitants are now staring at him.

“Wow,” comments the ginger girl after pulling out an earbud. “You look like shit.”

“I’m aware,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t completely give away how tired he is.

The redhead shrugs and pops the earbud back in. The blonde behind the counter looks at him a little closer, then runs into the back of the restaurant and emerges seconds later with another woman. She looks at Castiel and sighs heavily.

“Well, what are we going to do with you?” she asks.

When Castiel doesn’t move, the woman gestures for him to take a seat, and he ends up next to Varsity Boy. She ducks under the counter and slides over an ice pack and a small glass of water. He drains the glass in one hit and moves the ice under his shirt. She frowns at him. “What about your chin, boy?” she asks, and he shrugs gently.

“Not a problem,” he says. “Miss...”  
“Ellen. And I’m gonna get you somethin’ for that chin.”  
“Please, Miss Ellen—”  
“Just Ellen, sweetheart.”  
“—I’m fine, really.” He shrugs. “It’s been worse.”

In hindsight, that may not have been the best thing to say, judging by the way Ellen looks at him, but he doesn’t really care. Any adrenaline left from the “fight” (and that’s a weird word in this scenario because is it even a fight when only one party throws a punch?) has left him, and he can’t help but slump in the barstool. The guy directly to his right is trying to pretend he isn’t paying attention. His brother another seat down gazes openly.

“What happened to you, anyway?” asks the younger brother, voice light with curiosity. “Did you get in a fight?”

“...I suppose so,” Castiel replies. “Though it felt quite one-sided.”

The mullet-head looks up from his laptop abruptly and focuses on him. “Who were you fightin’?” he asks, watching closely. His brown eyes drill into Castiel’s skull as if actively trying to make him uncomfortable, and he looks away. He catches the man’s name tag as he does. _Ash_.

“I’d rather not disclose that information,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady and clear.

Ellen looks at him. “You _are_ Castiel, right?” When he nods, she sighs. “I’ve seen your brothers in here before. Balthazar and Gabriel, yeah?” He nods again. “You boys have a knack for getting into trouble. Actually, I think there was a fourth one in here once. D’you know a kid by the name of Mike? He looked a little like you.”

Castiel sits upright at that. “Michael was here?”  
“Yeah.”  
“...Are you sure?”  
“Yeah. I’m good with names.”  
“When was that?”  
“Long time ago. Maybe a few years.”

He frowns and clasps his fingers together. Castiel is seventeen years old with a good memory, and he should definitely remember an argument between Michael and Father. They’re both so headstrong, it would have been utterly explosive. But it seems wrong. While they had their disagreements, Michael was always one of Father’s favorites (whether the old man cared to admit it or not). He was one of the only sons who had a parent present at the football games, received legitimate signatures for field trips and school forms, had an audience when he spoke.

Castiel’s thoughts spin and spin and spin as he tries and tries and tries to remember some intense altercation, but nothing comes to mind.

But maybe Michael didn’t fight Father. Maybe he fought someone else.

Castiel may not remember a battle between Michael and Father, but he does remember another one just as violent, if not more. He remembers the only time Michael was grounded—stuck in his room the entire summer, even though they all knew he snuck out of his window each night. He remembers a fight between his brother and a stranger, even though he was no stranger at all.

Castiel remembers when he sprinted into the field, alone. He remembers the two bloody and broken but still swinging wildly, desperate to hurt. He remembers throwing himself between the two, and when that didn’t work, he remembers throwing the first thing he got his hands on. Remembers the blood dripping from Michael’s hairline and how he dropped to the ground, clutching his head. Remembers Lucifer (he hadn’t seen him since he was seven, and _this_ is how they would meet again, only days after his fourteenth birthday?) looking between them, remembers his anger, remembers clenched fists, remembers—

He remembers screaming.

“Hey, man, you okay?”

Castiel looks up, and then to the right, where Varsity Boy is watching him and trying not to let his concern show through. He hadn’t looked before, but now sitting next to the guy he can see his face clearly, can see how dark his hair is, how utterly _green_ his eyes are, even in the dim light of the diner. And that’s when recognition strikes him.

“Oh,” Castiel says. “You’re Dean Winchester.”

Dean frowns. “Uh. Yeah? Is there a problem with that?”

“No. No, it’s just...” Castiel waves a hand as if it will help explain his point, as his brain seems to briefly stop working. Dean Winchester is here in a coffee bar in the middle of the night with no explanation. Dean Winchester is looking at his busted-up face. Dean Winchester... does not recognize him after four years of wandering through the same halls. Perhaps that last one bothers him more than it should.

“I know you. From school.”  
Dean’s expression softens. “You go to C.W. High?”  
“Yes.”  
“You’re a senior too?”  
“Yes.”  
“I haven’t seen you there before.”  
“Well, I _am_ there.”  
“No, I didn’t mean— You just look unusual.”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow at that, and Dean responds by running his fingers through his hair, seemingly frustrated with himself. “Dammit. I just— I haven’t seen you before. You look different from anyone I’ve seen. Uh, interesting.”

“Attractive,” his brother pipes from the other seat. “ _Attractive_ is the word you’re looking for.”

Dean kicks him in the shin under the table, and the kid glares at him in response before taking the opportunity to introduce himself. “I’m Sam Winchester,” he tells Castiel, who is busy trying to register what just happened, and reaches across Dean to offer a hand. “You probably haven’t seen me. I’m a sophomore.”

Castiel awkwardly shakes it. “Castiel. Novak.”

“Nice to meet you, Castiel Novak,” Sam tells him and pulls back. “You look tired.”

“I feel tired,” he confesses. The buzz of fight-or-flight has worn off and left him with nothing but exhaustion. He realizes he hasn’t eaten since noon when his stomach growls unbidden. Dean shoots him a worried glance and looks to the blonde waitress— _Jo,_ according to her nametag—who has been silently observing. She catches Dean’s expression and immediately turns to Castiel.

“Do you want anything?” Jo offers him. “A coffee? Eggs? Bacon? We do breakfast here.”

“I don’t have my wallet,” Castiel says. “I can’t pay.”

Jo shakes her head. “Oh, no, don’t worry about that. It’s on the house,” she says with a smile, and instantly Castiel likes her. He asks quietly for a decaf and she winks before disappearing to the kitchen. The moment she leaves, Ellen returns with a damp paper towel and a band-aid and leans across the counter to hand it to him. He thanks her, growing faintly uncomfortable with the unusual kindness of these strangers. It’s not that he doesn’t mind it (with the night he’s had it’s certainly welcome) but it’s foreign to him.

Kindness in his family is shown through silent actions, like hiding Balthazar’s cigarette butts or covering for Gabriel’s crazy nights out. Sometimes his brothers return the favor, and on rare days perhaps Zachariah will give him a ride to school or Raphael will leave a bottle of aspirin on his dresser after migraine days.

But to be cared for like this...

Perhaps Dean sees something familiar on his face, or perhaps Castiel is really letting the stress of the night show, but he leans closer and talks low. “These guys are always like this,” he mutters and offers a dangerous half-smile. “They’re not pitying us. It’s just in their nature.”

Castiel nods wordlessly, which Dean sees as a cue to keep talking. “Sammy and I have known these guys for years. They’re old family friends. We come here whenever Dad’s— whenever we need to get out of the house.” He rests his elbows on the counter. “You probably get it.”

“Your father?” Castiel asks, a curious reflex, and then immediately he cringes. Dean’s face tightens and he looks away. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to answer that,” he tries to recover, but Dean waves a hand and just like that, he is forgiven.

Jo emerges from the kitchen with a mug of steaming coffee and a blueberry scone, smiling kindly at Castiel again. “Let me know if you want anything else,” she tells him before wandering over to Ash and talking with him in low tones, glancing furtively at his laptop screen.

Castiel takes a long draw from the mug—his stomach still rejects the idea of food. “Do you know my brother, Michael?” he asks Dean in a poor attempt to restart the conversation. “He plays football too. I don’t remember what position.”

Dean chuckles a little under his breath. Looks Castiel up and down, skeptical. “You’re _that_ guy’s brother? Really?” Castiel narrows his eyes (let it never be said that he is not loyal, despite what goes on behind closed doors) and Dean raises a defensive hand. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just that you guys are pretty different. I mean, he’s big and loud and hangs out with the real meatheads. Shoves kids like Sammy into lockers and fist-bumps his buddies after. And you’re none of that. So far, anyway.” His eyes flicker down and he smirks. “Cool shirt, though.”

Castiel looks down. “Oh. My brother showed me their music. A few years ago.”

Dean makes a face. “Michael?”

Castiel barks a cold laugh despite himself. “No, no. That would never... No. Not Michael. A different one. He’s not really around anymore. At college, I think. I know he was a great artist, so I hope he’s studying that. I don’t know for sure. We haven’t spoken in... a while...”

Dean is watching him closely. Castiel takes another sip of coffee and stares straight ahead, gripping the ceramic handle tightly. _Where the hell did that come from?_ Castiel is not one to ramble, let alone about his _family_ , for God’s sake. And yet, he just spoke about Lucifer of _all_ people to Dean Winchester. A complete stranger. He’s probably ruined this whole thing, hasn’t he?

“I get it, man,” Dean cuts through his thoughts. “Believe me, I do. So... Don’t worry about it.”

Perhaps sensing Castiel’s sudden discomfort, he continues, easily changing the topic. “College, huh? I got a couple of football scholarships, haven’t picked one yet. What about you?”

He shrugs and sets the mug down. _Damn, this is good coffee._ “Somewhere local, I guess. I’d love to get out of here but I don’t think that’s an option right now.” Castiel thinks of asking his father to ship him to the other side of the country (or for _any_ favors right now) and shivers. “Father wants us all to go to military school as he did, ‘fight the good fight’”—he makes air quotes—“but most of us aren’t interested in that. I’m certainly not.”

Dean nods. “My dad’s a vet too.”

Castiel looks away. He gets it, then. He knows how some men go into the military with stern faces, how those men come back with scars on their stomachs and minds, and they do not know how to cope. How they live constantly on edge. These are men who have children because that is what they are told to do, but they are never taught how to raise them, men who turn childhood into boot camp.

His stomach growls again, but Castiel still doesn’t feel like eating (especially after that little thought adventure) and drinks more coffee, hoping to literally drown out the hunger pangs. He knows from experience that it doesn’t work. He tries anyway.

“Anyway, college,” he mutters, but Dean picks up the halfhearted icebreaker.

“Yeah,” he sighs, slumping forward on his elbows and turning to look back at Castiel, eyes a little too bold, a little too trusting. “It’s weird, right? No more teachers constantly on our asses, no more asking to go to the damn bathroom, no more gym classes—”

“Thank the Lord for that one,” Castiel interjects, and Dean snorts.

“It is weird, though,” Castiel continues. “We’ve all had this rigid routine for the last twelve years of our lives, with adults not believing us capable of making our own decisions about our own lives. The world is much more open to us now.”

“I guess,” Dean shrugs. “My dad goes on a lot of work trips so Sammy and I get a lot of freedom. It’s been like that for as long as I can remember.” He sighs like he is remembering something. “I’ll probably stay local,” he admits. “Don’t wanna leave Sammy all alone.”

“I can understand that,” Castiel says, thinking of how Gabriel commutes in the mornings and afternoons and still scouts out safe places, how Balthazar keeps a watchful eye on both of them. “That’s very considerate of you.”

Dean shrugs again. “I’ve been taking care of Sammy for a long time. It’s nothing new.”

Now _that_ , Castiel cannot relate to. But he sees how Dean checks on Sam out of the corner of his eye, how his eyes sparkle a little whenever he says his brother’s name, and he can see how much he loves him. Castiel doesn’t have any relationships like that. He and his brothers watch out for each other with what feels like little more than mutual respect for each other’s health and sanity. None of them are particularly “close”.

He has never been in a romantic relationship either—the closest he ever got was in 5th grade when a girl told him he was cute under the slide and tried to kiss him, and he pushed her away so hard she hit her head on the plastic and cried. She went to the nurse and got an ice pack (despite not actually needing it) and Castiel got his first detention for assaulting another student. He’d tried to defend himself, say that she did it first, but no one listened to him.

“Are you in a relationship?” he asks Dean, who looks caught off guard by the sudden question.

“I— No. No, I’m not dating anyone.” He looks a little uncomfortable. “I mean, a couple flings here and there, but nothing really real. I’m, uh. Available.”

Castiel hums and drinks down the last dregs of the coffee mug. Jo passes by and wordlessly refills it, and he tries to thank her with his eyes. Judging by her soft smile, she gets the message and wanders over to the redhead in the booth. He’s a little surprised that Jo and Dean are not dating considering the way they look at each other sometimes, but then that’s a whole other complicated form of relationship he doesn’t quite have the energy to dive into right now.

“Are you?” Dean asks.  
“Am I what?”  
“Dating anyone.”  
“Oh. Um, no. I never have.”  
“Seriously?”  
“Yes.”  
“Oh.”  
“...”  
“I have. Been in one, I mean.”  
“Okay.”

In the uncomfortable lapse in conversation, Castiel notes that Dean still looks oddly surprised that he’s not in a relationship, or maybe that he never has been (and why did he need to include that, of all things?). Maybe Dean shouldn’t be so surprised, though. Castiel is not a trusting person by nature. None of his family is—one of the few things they all have in common. In fact, talking with Dean here is the most open he’s felt in a long while.

That realization alone gives him a sudden urge to sew his lips shut.

Out of the blue, or perhaps sensing the renewed awkwardness, Sam leans over Dean’s lap to stare at Castiel. Dean rolls his eyes and looks away from them, which Sam pointedly ignores.

“Hey, are you good at History?”  
“I’m alright,” Castiel admits.  
“What do you know about the Great Depression?”  
“...In the 1930s?”  
“Is there another one?”  
“I don’t think so.”

Sam looks both amused and annoyed. “Well, can you help me? My APUSH teacher just makes us read the textbook and write essays and shows videos every day that have nothing to do with history. We have a take-home test due next Monday and this stuff is confusing.”

Castiel shrugs. “I can try.”

Sam grabs his folder off the counter and reappears on Castiel’s other side, laying the sheets of multiple choice down. Castiel starts working through them in his head, listening to Sam working through the process of elimination out loud and flipping through the textbook. He points to an answer, Sam thinks it over before circling it and moving on. The questions are monotonous and serve as a nice distraction. He would much rather dredge up memories of reading _The Grapes of Wrath_ and the Federal Reserve Act than think about his father, or his brothers, or the way Dean is watching the two of them quietly, head resting on his palm.

Castiel drinks more coffee, thinks about Hoover and Roosevelt and unemployment rates. He thinks about how he will be graduating in two months, how long he has waited for this moment, and how long he will wait to walk across the stage after another four slow years in college. Castiel is going to major in religious studies and minor in pre-law and while he is eager to focus on what he really wants to learn, he is also exhausted by the concept. _When does it end?_

“Want another refill, hon?”

Castiel looks up to see Ellen with a full pot of coffee and a small smile. His own mug is empty again (when did that happen?) but he figures he’s used these people’s services enough tonight and simply shakes his head. Her smile turns softer, and she walks over to Jo and Ash on the other end of the counter, quietly joining their conversation. Sam is gone. Maybe in the restroom. He must have left a moment ago.

He takes the pause to look over at Dean, who is staring right back. “You’re pretty good with Sammy, huh? Kid talks a lot. That turns people off sometimes.” He says it like a test.

Castiel shrugs and pulls the now lukewarm ice pack out from under his shirt, then crosses his arms on the cold counter. “He’s very smart. Smarter than I was at his age, I think. He catches onto concepts easily and has a good memory. Does he know what he wants to study in college?”

Dean looks at the ice pack, then the cold scone between them. “Mind if I have this?” he asks, and when Castiel nods, he picks it up and eats a third of it in one bite.

“Law, I think,” he says after he swallows. “He’ll be real good at it. He wants to serve the people, help those who can’t help themselves, all that. Noble stuff.” Dean smiles, and Castiel thinks he is feeling something like pride. “Sammy’s a good kid. Better than me, definitely better than Dad. He’s gonna be amazing.”

“He’s already amazing,” Castiel says, meaning it, and Dean looks at him like he hung the stars. He feels bold, so he adds on: “I think you are too.”

At this Dean scoffs and looks away, which was not the reaction he was expecting, so he barrels forward. “I mean it. I don’t say things I don’t mean.” He takes a breath. “I’ve seen you in class—you pretend not to pay attention but you do. You never raise your hand, but you never get a question wrong. And even though you play football you don’t look down on other kids like some of the players do. You don’t follow your friends if their actions don’t align with your morals. That isn’t so common.” Dean is watching him now, so Castiel continues, confidence waning. He drills his fingers against the side of the mug. “Well. I guess I only met you tonight, and you’ve only been nice to me. That’s more than most people do, so... I appreciate it.”

In the sudden quiet following his words, Castiel’s courage evaporates. It’s been a long night, he decides. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have such a loose tongue. _Honestly_.

Something bumps into his kneecap, and he realizes it is Dean’s knee. His foot is propped on the metal ring at the bottom of Castiel’s chair and their legs are resting against each other. The closeness and contact make him hyperaware, and he looks up.

“That’s, uh. That’s nice of you to say.” Dean almost looks angry, and Castiel momentarily panics, afraid he said something wrong, but then Dean meets his eyes, and _oh_. His eyes are so very very green, and Dean is staring into the deeper parts of Castiel’s soul, and Castiel is not afraid to look away. He thinks he could stare into his eyes for a long time. “I don’t know if it’s all true,” Dean speaks like he is sharing a deep secret, “but it’s real nice. Means a lot.”

Castiel places his arm between them experimentally, and Dean lays his hand over Castiel’s wrist like a reflex. His heart is beating like a war drum—something he was sure only happened in sappy romance stories, but here it is, loud enough to stuff his ears. He wonders if Dean can hear it too.

“You’re pretty damn amazing too, you know,” Dean says, still quiet. “You know, you come in here with blood all over your face in a Metallica shirt, looking like you want to be left alone, and then you’re talking with me about personal shit we don’t tell anyone about and helping my brother with his homework like it’s nothing. Like we’ve all known each other for years. Do you feel like that too?” Castiel nods, wordless, and Dean exhales.

“Good. Good. I was wondering.” He rubs his thumb over the back of Castiel’s hand. “...I don’t want to go home,” he admits. “I don’t want to leave here, leave this. Leave you.”

“It’s late,” Castiel whispers. There’s a lump in his throat. “Really late.”

“I know.”

The silence that falls between them is comfortable. It envelops them like a bubble, shielding them from the rest of the world. Dean’s thumb is a rhythm on his hand, soft and steady, and Castiel wants to thread his fingers through Dean’s hair, rest a hand on his cheek, pull him closer. He’s never felt like this in his whole life and he can feel it slipping from his fingertips as the second-hand ticks around the clock. _Please don’t let this end_.

Castiel almost doesn’t hear his phone chime, but Dean glances down at his pocket and he follows his gaze. When he pulls it out he finds a text from his brother.

 **_Gabriel:_ ** _coast officially clear bro. whole house is sleepin. u can come back now_

_Oh. Right._

His shoulders tense reflexively. His Father’s rage is gone for now (though there is always the chance it will return come sunrise) but the walk back is dark and intimidating and the house is much worse. Castiel doesn’t want to go back. He wants to stay in the diner for another hour, half-hour, even five minutes. He wants another cup of coffee. He wants to listen to more of Sam’s stories about his incompetent history teacher. He wants to learn more about Dean’s life, make him laugh, roll his eyes, talk, yell, sigh, anything.

Castiel doesn’t want to go home. Hell, he would rather be _anywhere_ else. But he won’t tell Dean that. He’s said enough tonight. He can handle this one by himself.

Dean breaks the silence. “You okay?” he asks gently, and when Castiel looks up Dean is focused on him. Confused—no. Worried. Caring. His eyes flick to the dried cut across his cheek, the bruise on his jaw, the arm wrapped loosely around his stomach. “You could stay with us for the night,” he offers. “Don’t have to go back yet. Take my bed. I’ll crash on the couch.”

He puts the phone away. “It’s alright. It’s just... time to head back.” Castiel inhales deeply, gazes into the bottom of his empty mug. Exhales. “It will be fine. Eventually.”

Dean opens his mouth to speak again, but his eyes go to something behind Castiel’s head and he pulls back sharply. Sam joins them a moment later and looks to Dean. “Are we going home yet?” he asks. And then to Castiel: “Do you want us to drive you home? We have a car.” Dean looks to Castiel as if to say, _why didn’t I think of that?_

Castiel dares to smile. “That’d be great. Thank you.”

As Sam packs up his textbooks and Dean says one last thing to Jo and Ash, Castiel approaches Ellen. “I wanted to thank you again,” he says. “I know you’ve had to deal with a few of us, but you’re still very kind. I will try to pay you back.”

Ellen shakes her head. “You already paid in full, hon. I haven’t seen that boy look that comfortable in a while. Sam helps him, but they’re both in the same situation, so it’s tough. And then you walked in...” She looks at Castiel and winks like they are sharing a secret. “Come again sometime when you’re not all bruised up, huh?”

“I will,” he promises and turns to follow the brothers out of the coffee shop.

The sky is still black, but Castiel knows somewhere in the back of his head that it is very early in the morning and that school tomorrow is likely to be hell. It has cooled down, too, and he shivers a little.

He jumps when something is put around his shoulders, and when he looks up Dean is missing his varsity jacket, showing the black form-fitting athletic T-shirt beneath. Castiel only realizes he’s checking Dean out when the guy laughs, and when he looks up Dean is smiling. “Be careful with that jacket,” he jokes. “I don’t need you ruining it.”

“No promises,” Castiel says, but he smiles back.

Dean kicks Sam into the backseat of their ‘67 Chevy Impala so Castiel can sit in the front (which yields a brief argument and then a joke about shotguns and cakeholes that he probably had to witness to understand). The jacket fits warm around his shoulders, and when he puts his left arm in between them, Dean interlocks their fingers with one hand and drives with the other. There’s nothing awkward left—their hands fit so perfectly, it feels like a shame they hadn’t been doing this all night. He tells Dean his address and Dean starts the engine.

Sam asks for music, and Dean flicks on the radio absentmindedly. The current station is faintly playing Halsey—not usually Castiel’s cup of tea, but something about her voice loosens the knot in his chest. Her words wash over him and he tips his head back. Dean glances over and Castiel squeezes his hand. They both know what he’s walking back into.

He notices Dean is taking the long way to his house, driving through town. It’s mostly dark with occasional street lamps lighting the way down. Castiel is not sure if it’s for his benefit or for theirs, but he appreciates it nonetheless. The music switches over to Billie Eilish, who croons into his ear about broken hearts and missing people. He squeezes Dean’s hand again and in the corner of his eye, he sees him glance over.

“It’ll be fine,” Dean says, speaking to all of them and himself at the same time. “It always ends eventually. You just gotta get through it.”

Castiel nods and tries to let the lyrics drown out everything but the feel of skin against skin and the sound of quiet breathing. It nearly works.

After what was both too long and not long enough, the car slows down as they pull up in front of Castiel’s house. Nobody moves. He looks at Dean, and Dean looks at him, and nobody moves. Sam has fallen asleep in the backseat.

Something clicks. “Do you have a pen? I could give you my number,” Castiel offers, and Dean’s eyes shine like Castiel is some kind of genius. He mentions something in the glovebox, so Castiel pops it open and digs around until he finds a Sharpie. He does not, however, find anything to write on.

“I’d use my phone,” Dean says, “but it died an hour ago. Any other ideas?”

“Let me see your arm,” he suggests, and Dean holds it out to him. Castiel writes his number carefully so that all the 7s and 1s look different and caps the pen. “That might last a while,” he says, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but the way Dean looks at him dissolves it.

“I think your brothers are waiting for you,” Dean says and points to Castiel’s house. Sure enough, he can see the silhouettes of two people (Gabriel and Balthazar, definitely) in a window near the front door. He figures this is the end, but then Dean offers to walk him to the door.

As they walk, Dean brushes their hands together, still a little uncertain, and Castiel closes the gap, making Dean hum happily. There is not enough distance between the car and the door, so they walk slowly. The moon peeks out from behind the fog and clouds, illuminating everything that lies beneath it in a cool glow. Eventually, they reach the front door.

“I don’t know if I can say I had a good time about everything, considering the circumstances,” Dean says, quiet even in the silence of darkness, “but it was really nice meeting you. I’m kinda glad everything happened if we met because of it.”

“Me too,” Castiel says. “Text me when you get home.”

“I will,” Dean promises. The hand that is not intertwined with Castiel’s comes up to barely brush against his jawline. He seems afraid to do anything else but stare.

RIght as his hand starts to move, the front door flies open and both of them jerk backward, hands coming apart. Gabriel is in the doorway with a raised eyebrow, and behind him stands Balthazar with crossed arms. “Welcome back, bro,” Gabriel says, blatantly ignoring Dean. “How ya feeling?”

“Better,” he admits. “A lot better. Dean helped.”

“Well, then,” Balthazar speaks up from the back, “we won’t be needing him anymore. Will we?” He looks clearly at Dean, who is a little confused but catching on, and smiles with fake innocence.

“No, I don’t think we will,” Gabriel agrees. “Goodnight, buddy. Castiel, come on in.”

Castiel looks to Dean instead, who grins at him. “Night, Cas,” he says, and then walks back down the steps. Castiel doesn’t go inside, doesn’t move as he watches Dean head back to the car with Sharpie down his forearm, and pulls the jacket a little tighter around his shoulders.

Oh _shit, the jacket—_

“Wait, Dean!” he yells out and takes a few steps forward. “You forgot your jacket!”

Dean looks up from where he is about to get back into the driver’s seat and smiles even wider. “Keep it for now,” he yells back. “It looks good on you. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? You can give it back then if you want.”

Castiel nods, at a loss for words, and Dean gets back in the car, and then the Impala cruises down the road until it makes a turn and disappears into the night.

A half-hour later, when Castiel is in his room trying and failing to fall asleep, his phone pings.

 **_Unknown number:_ ** _your brothers are kinda scary._

He huffs a laugh and glances at the varsity jacket on the back of his desk chair before typing.

 _ **Castiel:** They don’t mean anything by it. They’re protective, I guess._  
_**Dean:** no kidding._  
_**Castiel:** ...See you tomorrow?_  
_**Dean:** definitely._

**Author's Note:**

> the title of this is taken from the painting ["nighthawks"](https://www.artic.edu/artworks/111628/nighthawks) by edward hopper.
> 
> on tumblr [@sinkthesix](https://sinkthesix.tumblr.com/)


End file.
